


The Ethics of Eating a Dragon's Soul

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Ysraneth's Tale [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Cannibalism, Ethical Dilemmas, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Green Pact, Implied Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ysraneth, the half-Bosmer Nord Dragonborn, has a serious question about the morality of eating dragons when she has the soul of one. So she asks Arngeir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ethics of Eating a Dragon's Soul

Arngeir, Master of the Greybeards, had tried not to anticipate what the Dragonborn would be like when he and his brethren issued the call to High Hrothgar. But the Dovahkiinne were traditionally Nord, so he at least expected a brawny, boisterous soul to match the thundering of her Voice. Likely clad in furs and armour with an iron or steel weapon, eyes flashing like lightning, skin pale as the snow.

            When Lydia entered the doors, he’d stepped forward to greet her as Dragonborn, though he wondered at her companion. At first glance, he’d assumed she was Bosmer with the milk-coffee skin, long teardrop face and large green eyes, clad in fine leather armour with a magnificent bow across her back. Judging by their behaviour, the two were lovers, though man and mer relationships were… frowned upon… by the Nords.

            Then she came up to Lydia and was of a similar height; her frame was nearly as bulky as the Nord woman’s, but more in the shoulders as befits an archer, and he noted queasily that her quiver was made from tanned yellow leather that came from no animal. She was Nord… but followed the Green Pact of Yff’re.

            “All clear, Thane,” Lydia called out, nodding respectfully to Arngeir.

            “Already inside,” the woman answered… and the Master of the Greybeards heard the touch of thunder in her Voice.

            “Dragonborn…?” he asked, half of the gods and half of the women before him.

            “So Balgruuf tells me.” The mix-blood bowed respectfully. “I’m Ysraneth. I’m honoured to meet you, sir.”

            “I am Master Arngeir.” He bowed in return, relieved she at least seemed to be amenable to the path of wisdom. “I am honoured to meet you, Dragonborn.”

            The formalities were concluded in short order, Master Borri’s face disappointed when it was proved that yes, the Nord cannibal was the Dragonborn. Arngeir was impressed with her easy mastery of Dovahzul, though he feared she might get a bit too eager.

            Once the lessoning was done and the other Masters returned to their meditations, Arngeir drew the Dragonborn – Ysraneth, her very name combining both her heritages – aside and offered her a seat. “You seem troubled, Dovahkiin. How might I help you?”

            “Well, I’ve been bothered since I killed Mirmulnir and… well, ate his soul.” Ysraneth had brought some arrows and feathers with her, fletching them as she talked. She was clearly competent and Arngeir noted that many of the heads were bone and horn. “It’s a shame they go up in fire; that big bastard could have fed the dead guards’ widows for weeks if they dried the meat properly and the scales would have made a nice tent.”

            “You follow the Green Pact?” He needed to understand her morality and ethics so best to guide her. Eating the flesh of other sentient beings was immoral by Nord standards, but he suspected that Ysraneth would see it as a horrible waste of meat.

            “Sort of. I don’t eat men or Bosmer; that’s cannibalism.” She smiled wryly at his surprised blink, clearly not offended by it. “Da was always on me about it. ‘The gods gave you a meal, girl. Don’t waste it’.”

            Arngeir found himself chuckling. “I… see.”

            “Fantastic! Most people are squicked out by this point. I understand, but you know, most people don’t appreciate the resources the land gives them.” Ysraneth shook her head disappointedly. “I tend to avoid Dunmer because they taste ashy, even when spit-roasted over a slow fire – don’t worry, they’re always dead! Orsimer never bathe enough and the beastfolk never skin properly, so I always get fur or scales stuck in my teeth.”

            Of all the discussions Arngeir was having, discussing the ethics and tastes of cannibalism were nearly the last, literally just before a cordial chat with a Blade over the proper direction of the Dragonborn. But he could tell that Ysraneth was sincerely interested in the morality of being a person who could absorb the souls of dragons. It behoved him to give her questions due consideration.

            “I notice you didn’t mention Altmer,” he ventured cautiously, looking pointedly at the golden-yellow quiver set up by her seat.

            “Mama worshipped Talos and they killed her; Papa was nearly purged in Valenwood because he wasn’t ‘pure enough’ for them.” Her amiable tone had turned bitter with old hatred. “Besides, they keep themselves in good shape. Lean, tender, well-bred…”

            “I… understand.” He was revolted, of course, but it was not his place to judge the Dragonborn. And after what the Thalmor had done to his beloved pupil Ulfric, he found it hard to disagree with her unorthodox attitude.

            “Fantastic! I was expecting some sour look.” Ysraneth seemed genuinely grateful and reached out to squeeze his hand; her own was callused and strong.

            “I, ah, take it you’re having difficulties with the ethics of eating dragons?” he asked carefully, oddly touched by her gesture.

            Ysraneth nodded quickly. “I know my comment about feeding Mirmulnir to the guards’ widows might sound odd, but they’re not dragons. Balgruuf said I’ve got the soul of one and…”

            “The Jarl of Whiterun is correct. You have the soul of a dragon but the body of a human.”

            The mix-blood sighed. “It seems unethical to eat the souls of dragons. Like cannibalism.”

            “…You follow the Green Pact.”

            “I’m half-man, half-mer. I don’t eat any race of man or the Bosmer,” she corrected. “I’m not Altmer, so they’re fair game.”

            Arngeir could understand now, dimly, what was troubling her. She’d likely been raised by two different belief systems and this was the only way she could reconcile both sides of her ancestry. To embrace her destiny as Dragonborn would mean spitting on that which made her Bosmer yet paradoxically force her to act in a manner repulsive to her Nord blood.

            He went over what Paarthunax had taught the Greybeards about dragons. “As I understand it, dragons fight and devour each other all the time. You are doing no more or no less than any of your winged brethren… and believe me, Dragonborn, they will seek to devour you. Alduin in particular.”

            Ysraneth sighed, looking unhappy. “That’s not an easy answer, Master Arngeir.”

            “You have the power of a child of Akatosh, Dragonborn. Such gifts rarely bring easy answers.”

            The mix-blood looked at Lydia, who was examining one of the ancient carvings. “Can dragons love?”

            Arngeir followed her eyes. Lydia was a typical Nord woman; in her features he could see the lineage of Whiterun’s Jarls. Balgruuf had literally trusted her so much, had been so grateful for her intervention at Whiterun, that he’d given her a huscarl of his own flesh and blood. “It is your soul that makes you a dragon, but your heart and mind that make you mortal, Dragonborn. What do they tell you?”

            “That it’s better someone like me, who will thank the gods for the meals they send me – even if they’re estranged family trying to eat me before I eat them – be Dragonborn instead of some pureblood Nord idiot who’ll mount a dragon’s skull on his wall to show he’s a mighty warrior,” she finally replied. “I didn’t want to be rude to Balgruuf, but I nearly asked him to take down Numinex’s skull and use it for something! Nothing wrong with keeping a trophy of a hunt, but you need to _use_ it, not stick it on a wall for decoration!”

            “I understand.” Arngeir allowed himself a smile at the agitated mix-blood. “You are a huntress, Dragonborn. Kynareth, our patron goddess, oversees your kind too. She disdains the hunter who kills for sport or refuses to use prey for all it is worth. If I may be so bold, I am relieved that you are not someone like what I expected when I heard the power of your Shout at Whiterun.”

            “You expected someone like Lydia.” There was no rancour in the statement. “She doesn’t always understand, but she tries. I don’t expect her to follow the Green Pact but she’s a decent hunter. Poor archer, but I’ll work on that.”

            “You love her.”

            “I think so.”

            Arngeir sighed, leaning back in his seat. Nord blood or not, he was old enough to feel the cold. “Kynareth loved mortals so much She gave us the power of the Thu’um, Dragonborn.”

            “Is that’s why it’s a sin to use it for your own glory?” Ysraneth asked, startling the Master.

            “The Greybeards believe so, yes. It is only to be used for the worship of Kynareth.” He held up a hand. “As Dragonborn and a child of Akatosh, you are not bound by the same rules.”

            “That why you guided Talos, huh, even though he was a marauding jackhole who betrayed his own king?”

            Arngeir blinked. That was harsher than he expected. “I, ah, wasn’t Master then. But I suppose so.”

            “Don’t worry. I won’t go conquering anything. Too much killing, too much waste.” Ysraneth shook her head in disgust. “The Nords want to kill the elves and the elves want to return the favour. If Ulfric had half a brain, he’d approach the Valenwood clans and some of the Khajiit.”

            “Politics is not our sphere of influence,” he told her, feeling a pang of heartache at the memory of the bright-eyed, proud-Voiced youth he’d trained.

            “Sorry, Master Arngeir. I forgot you trained Ulfric.” She sighed, rubbing the back of her head. Most of it had been shaved, only the top half permitted to grow and be gathered in a long ponytail.

            “It is alright.” Arngeir sighed. “I am glad that you are willing to consider the ethics of your gift, Dragonborn. Many others… would not.”

            “Yeah. If I heard one more bloody Companion talk about what he’d do with the Voice…” She sighed. “I’m going to kick Alduin’s arse, buy myself a parcel of land, marry Lydia if she’ll have me and adopt a couple kids.”

            _Such a simple goal for a remarkable woman._ Perhaps it was fitting that the Last Dragonborn be such a truly _humble_ individual. Arngeir was certainly relieved she was who she was, even if she considered Altmer a valid source of food.

            _Ulfric would like her if he could get past her mer blood,_ Arngeir thought quietly. _I hope they meet. She could teach him a thing or two._

“I pray it is so,” he said aloud. “So, Dragonborn, tell me about yourself if you please.”

            “Well, did I ever tell you about the time I learned the best marinade for an Altmer is wild honey and garlic?” she asked with a grin. “You see, you need to get the tenderloin…”

            To the end of his life, Arngeir could never tell if she was serious or not, as he refused her well-meaning offer of a meal. But by the time she left for Ustengrav, he was genuinely fond of her, and prayed to Kynareth that her dream of a quiet home with a beautiful wife and a couple children became true.

            It would be a fitting end for the Last Dragonborn, the only one to ever consider the ethics of eating a dragon’s soul.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Another little one-shot to deal with the absolutely depressing ending to my last novel.


End file.
